


The Art of Appreciating Nature

by psikeval



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I'm bored</i>, says Aramis, and Porthos has a few ideas about how to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Appreciating Nature

**Author's Note:**

> Blatant divergence after the beginning of 1.09, such that no assassins are sent anywhere and the musketeers continue guarding the queen uninterrupted.

_\--_

 

_“I thought this was paradise.”_

_“That was two days ago. Now I’m bored.”_

 

\--

 

Hours later, Aramis is completing a slow circle of the lake, still glaring at sparrows and brimming with discontent. It would be one thing, he tells himself, if the four of them had come to the lake alone. Then, at least, they could _do_ something. Go fishing, explore the woods. Bathe, even, at some other time than in the pitch-black night when Anne and her attendants are asleep.

Instead they’re stuck here playing bodyguard to the latest royal fertility rites, it’s humid and too warm, and even with d’Artagnan to torment it’s just … so … _dull_. Noise and excitement and hot meals waiting in Paris, and yet here is Aramis, kicking idly at rocks on the path around the lake.

One stone skitters down the slope in the direction of the water, but entirely fails to cause a rockslide, or even a loud noise. No, every element of their surroundings is against him.

Aramis sighs expansively and walks on.

Of course, he’s not as his most observant when sulking, and it does occasionally slip his mind that his lover once ran the streets of Paris with the late king of the Court of Miracles. So Aramis is taken by surprise when he’s grabbed by the scruff of the neck and shoved face-first against a tree—but sulking or not, he’d know that grip anywhere. He doesn’t bother putting up a fight.

The hand on Aramis’ neck slides up to the back of his head, fingers scraping over his scalp and cradling his skull. Porthos has taken off his gloves already, which tends to be… promising.

With no way of turning his head, and nothing to look at but the forest around them, Aramis leans back into Porthos’ hands. It is, after all, one of his favorite places to be. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Coulda sworn I heard you say you were bored,” says Porthos, then twines his fingers more securely through Aramis’ hair and drags backward, arching his back and baring his throat to the warm humid air. Aramis stares at the blue sky above them and thinks that it shouldn’t be quite so thrilling to be handled this way, but— well.

“Me?” he manages, breathless. “Bored, with such company?”

“Flattery.” Porthos uses his free arm to haul back Aramis’ hips until they are pressed together back-to-front, forcing Aramis to lean more heavily into the tree for balance. (He forgets, sometimes, how strong Porthos is, but is always quickly and deliciously reminded.) Aramis stays obediently where he’s been put, more than willing to see how this will go, while Porthos disarms him one-handed and tosses aside his pistol, sword and hunting knife.

From there Porthos’ hand strays up under Aramis’ shirt, warm and possessive — petting his stomach, callous-rough fingers rubbing over his nipples, dragging down again to cup Aramis’ half-hard cock through his trousers. Aramis can’t help himself; his whole body jerks into the touch and Porthos’ grip in his hair tightens automatically.

The noise it draws from Aramis’ throat is broken and raw and surprises them both. Aramis stays as still as he can with his face pressed into the tree, trembling with want and unable to stop.

“All right then,” Porthos says in his ear, sounding almost shaken. “So. I’m gonna fuck you, right here on the ground—” Aramis groans through clenched teeth, helpless against it, rubbing himself against the palm of Porthos’ hand “—and you just let me know if you get _bored_ , yeah?”

It’s too much; Aramis’ legs give out entirely and he falls, Porthos right behind him. He grabs Aramis again, by the hair and around the waist, hauls him back from the tree just far enough to give them some space. To Aramis’ credit, he manages not to embarrass himself by coming on the spot, just from being dragged about like a plaything with the ground scraping his knees.

“So that’s what you like,” Porthos says, half to himself, and the honestly pleased wonder in his voice fills Aramis up with a warmth that is far too much to consider here and now.

“I like a lot of things,” he answers instead.

“I’d noticed, yeah.” Porthos rests his hands loosely on Aramis’ belt while he waits for Aramis to take off his shirt (Porthos’ shirt, stolen and too large by half). He only starts in on Aramis’ trouser lacings when Aramis has settled back on his hands and knees. “You coulda said.”

“And—” He breaks off, gasping unevenly for air that seems scarce, when Porthos’ fingers brush over his bare cock, too many times to be coincidence, “—deny you the joy of discovery?”

The trousers are shoved down around his knees and stay there, because Porthos may not yet know every last thing Aramis likes but he knows about that, how Aramis feels about being bent over half-dressed and used with Porthos fully clothed behind him. Granted, Porthos is only wearing a loose cotton shirt in deference to the heat—not the same as the seams and laces and leather of his uniform scraping Aramis’ skin—but still, it has the desired effect.

Aramis is still pretty easy from being fingered last night, when they’d slipped away from the campfire with d’Artagnan keeping watch like an enthusiastic labrador and Athos rolling his eyes at them all from the warm cocoon of his bedroll. Now Porthos’ fingers, slick with oil, breach him with relative ease—too slow, because Porthos is always so careful. (Whether he honestly thinks he needs to be or just likes to torture Aramis, it’s impossible to be sure.)

He keeps the grip on Aramis’ hair like an afterthought, not focused on it now, his fingertips circling slowly, absently, over Aramis’ scalp. There’s no reason for it to be so arousing, being gently touched like this and opened up to be fucked all at once, but _Christ,_ between that and the idle kisses Porthos presses into his spine, he can’t seem to stop shaking.

There are sharp bits of sticks, edges of rocks beneath Aramis’ palms, pressing into the skin while Porthos touches him and touches him. For a moment Aramis tries digging his fingers into the dirt, scrapes his knuckles on bits of stone, anything to keep from feeling quite so much like he’s already fallen apart. When he looks around for some sort of distraction, he sees for the first time the faint smoke from their campsite ahead, and his whole face flushes hot.

“We aren’t far enough from the camp,” he tries. “They’ll hear.”

“Mm.” Porthos considers this, or pretends to, while rubbing his fingers inside Aramis too lightly to be anything but a tease. Every soft, pleading sound to spill past Aramis’ lips is rewarded by an increase in pressure. “Maybe. Won’t be boring though, will it?”

A low moan, far too loud, escapes Aramis when Porthos thinks to pull at his hair, forcing his head back again. Still, even blushing with his cock twitching untouched between his legs, Aramis can’t help but smile. “Don’t suppose I’ll ever live that down?”

“Doubt it.” Porthos’ tone is so warm with affection it feels like an embrace in itself, and he tugs Aramis’ head to one side so he can duck down and press a kiss to his throat. For a moment their bodies are pressed together completely, Porthos lingering with his beard scraping Aramis’ neck and Aramis loving him to the point of absurdity. “You ready?”

“God, yes.” He feels like he’s been waiting for hours, like there’s nothing in the world except how much he needs this, and he can’t help sighing with something like relief when the blunt, thick head of Porthos’ cock pushes into him, better than his fingers, better than anything. Perfect.

“Fuck.” Porthos drops his head down onto Aramis’ shoulder, pushing in with slow, luxuriant rolls of his hips. “Fuck, I been wanting this. Not the same, even your mouth — had _dreams_ about this, past couple nights, you on your hands and knees, just—”

“Yes.” It’s all he can manage because Aramis feels gone already, half out of his body and entirely out of his mind, but Porthos’ blunt fingers rub over his scalp like a reward.

Porthos moves around him then, adjusting the angle of their bodies, and dares place his hands on the ground for balance instead of on Aramis, where they should be. Aramis can’t help the plaintive whine that escapes his throat, even with Porthos pressed so close behind him.

“Greedy, ain’t you.” His laughter is warm on Aramis’ skin, messy kisses scattered over his shoulders until Porthos’ weight is shifted enough to grab hold of Aramis’ hair again; he tugs twice, sharply, counterpoint to the steady in-and-out slide of his cock, and Aramis can barely see for how badly he needs to come, needs Porthos to touch him, _anything_.

“You miss this?” Porthos asks, and he’s still grinning, the bastard, Aramis can hear it in his voice and he has no idea how Porthos can still talk like that, like he’s hardly short of breath. Like they’re doing a bit of sparring in the yard, instead of fucking on the ground. “Did you?” he repeats, the question punctuated by a rough shove of his hips that sends Aramis lurching forward, the grip on his hair pulling painfully tight.

“ _Yes_.” The word is little more than a gust of breath, but he knows Porthos hears it.

Aramis is usually better than this, can keep up a filthy conversation in bed with the best of them, but he isn’t used to being so entirely overwhelmed, fucked open and cherished, loved and used, protected and possessed all at once. He is not, in his more thoughtful moments, entirely sure that Porthos is someone he’ll ever just be _used to._

As if to illustrate the point, Porthos just keeps talking, his voice ragged but still cheerful. “M’glad. Nice to feel wanted. An’ you do, don’t you? Hmm? ’f’you want more, just ask me.”

“More,” says Aramis, as flatly as he can, admittedly just so he can feel Porthos’ delighted laughter vibrate through them both.

“Aramis,” he chides. “Dreadful manners. The nuns’d be ashamed.”

“For — _so_ many — reasons.” He wishes he could see the huge and unrepentant grin on Porthos’ face, but settles for bracing his elbows on the ground, leverage to push back and savor the low groan it earns him.

“Right.” Finally Porthos is starting to sound winded. “Tell you what— this once, I’ll let it pass.”

It’s all the warning he gives before Porthos rears upright on his knees, taking Aramis with him, one hand still buried in Aramis’ hair and the other wrapping around his cock; Aramis can’t balance, can barely hold himself still enough to be fucked in hard, merciless thrusts. He comes like that, with almost embarrassing speed, dropped back onto the ground so Porthos can hold onto his hips and fuck him through it.

Aramis lets his forehead rest in the dirt and leaves and tries not to inhale them, though it’s rather hard to catch his breath when he feels utterly boneless and Porthos is still going, hands braced now on either side of Aramis until finally he comes, shuddering hard and muttering grateful curses into Aramis’ overheated skin.

Reasoning that he’s waited quite long enough, Aramis flips over onto his back and grins.

He slings an arm around Porthos’ neck, because he’s not sure he can go another second without kissing him, and Porthos goes willingly. At first it’s hardly a kiss at all, just smiles brushing and lips clinging as they start to catch their breath, a few heady moments when getting their tongues reacquainted feels more important than air. After a while Porthos’ hands begin to stray over Aramis’ skin, gentle and soothing while Aramis melts beneath him.

They are almost always this way after sex, Porthos petting and Aramis happily letting himself be petted, as well matched in this as in everything else. Aramis is half asleep already, practically purring while Porthos traces idle circles on his sides. He’s one of the only lovers Aramis has ever had who doesn’t pay special attention to the scars, who cares about them only insofar as they are part of Aramis himself (and, therefore, loved more than can possibly be deserved).

Aramis' eyes are just drifting shut when Porthos asks him, lazy and affectionate, “Still wanna go back to Paris?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “I’ve had it with every empty, vermin-filled inch of this place. But—” Aramis breaks off, yawning widely, and uses it as an excuse to curl in closer and bury his face in Porthos’ neck. “—it's not as if I’m going anywhere without you.”

 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> if you need me i'll be crying on [tumblr](http://psikeval.tumblr.com/)


End file.
